Of Beakers and Baby Bottles
by Blackbirdox
Summary: In retrospect, Sherlock is certain that the existence of the squalling, squished, wiggling little pink thing in his arms could be entirely blamed on Mrs. Hudson. Or in other words, Sherlock and John attempt to tackle impending parenthood. John/Sherlock.
1. In Which Mrs Hudson is Blamed

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my imagination.

**A/N:** I have no good excuse for this fic other than wanting to just write some good old fashioned fluff. Most kid!fics always seem to deal with older children so I thought I'd try something different and explore how John and Sherlock would tackle impending parenthood. I literally just hashed this chapter out in fifteen minutes so I apologize for any glaring errors that you might see. I've had the whole fic outlined for months and just couldn't come up with a way to start it until now. Funny how that works, isn't it?

And I'm sure the question will come up so no, this is not going to be a mpreg story. Sherlock and John will acquire their little bundle of joy through conventional means.

Enjoy! Any and all feedback is always _so _appreciated.

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><p>In retrospect, Sherlock is certain that the existence of the squalling, squished, wiggling little pink thing in his arms could be entirely blamed on Mrs. Hudson.<p>

However, to hear Mrs. Hudson tell it, one would assume that no one was to blame; that it was all a part of maturation, of growing up and sorting out one's priorities. But should they assume that, they would be wrong. It had nothing to do with priorities or growth or any other such nonsense—no. Oh no. It was the fault of Martha and Sophie Hudson, the sickeningly sweet grandmother/granddaughter duo who, as far as Sherlock was concerned, were put on this earth for the sole purpose of destroying his life.

Because if it hadn't been for little Sophie Hudson, there would still be beakers in his sink rather than bottles. Instead of formula in the refrigerator, there would be the bag of tongues that Molly had managed to scrounge up for him, all chilled and ready for experimentation. In place of the crib that now resided in the upstairs bedroom, perhaps there could be an office with a bookcase. Or a new centrifuge. Or a music stand. Perhaps said room wouldn't be painted the most vibrant, headache inducing shade of yellow and perhaps there could have been a new lab table with room for a new microscope.

But because of Sophie Hudson, Sherlock now lived in a quote "baby proofed flat". Because of Sophie Hudson, he'd read all sorts of books on how to properly rear one's offspring and taken parenting classes and gone to doctor's appointments and framed ultrasound photographs and poured over list after list of insipid and utterly ridiculous baby names. (And he'd always thought that there could be nothing worse than Mycroft.)

Because of Sophie Hudson, John had developed what Mrs. Hudson affectionately referred to as "baby fever". Little Sophie was no more than a week old when she'd come waltzing into their lives with all the force of a devastating tornado, practically reducing John into a liquefied puddle of goo right there in the middle of the living room.

Mrs. Hudson had used the guise of wanting to introduce her granddaughter to, in her words, her second family—her "boys". But oh, Sherlock knew better than that. Her motives had been clear to him the moment she'd breezed in, carting a little lump in a horrendous pink dress.

"Isn't she just precious, John?" she'd said.

"You're so good with her, John," she'd said.

"Oh, you're a natural!" she'd said.

"You would make a wonderful father, John," she'd said.

And that had been that. With those words, she'd planted the seed. She'd sparked John's so called "fever". She'd known exactly what she was doing, clever old bird that she was. She wanted her second family to have a family; wanted little surrogate grandchildren for Sophie to play with. She wanted another reason to hover around. Some fresh blood to fuss over.

Enter squalling pink thing.

Sherlock would never begrudge her, though. In fact, he supposes that maybe he should thank her because without all of her meddling, there would be no squalling little pink thing. His life would never have been ruined (for the better, that is) and John would never have looked so blindingly happy. Without all of her meddling, he wouldn't have a son.

No, they. _They_ wouldn't have a son—Emerson Bradley Holmes-Watson wouldn't exist.

So, really, in all actuality, it _is_ all Mrs. Hudson's fault.

And neither Sherlock nor John could ever thank her enough.


	2. Propostion

It's on a Tuesday morning over breakfast when Sherlock decides that they've skirted around the issue long enough.

John is in the middle of applying jam to the underside of his toast (its blackberry today, his favorite) and then suddenly, his knife has slipped from his fingers and for a moment, the only sounds that fill the flat are the echoes of the clatter it makes when it falls onto his plate.

"What?"

Sherlock gives John a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. His eyes have widened to almost comical proportions and there are several flecks of blackberry jam on his jumper. "I asked if you would like to have a child," he repeats simply, as if he were discussing something mundane like the weather or what sort of take-away should be ordered for dinner.

John makes a sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat. "I don't… understand."

"A child, John. An infant. A baby. A developing human. A miniature homo sapien—."

"I know what a child is, thank you," John cuts in, reaching up to blot at his jumper with his napkin. "What I don't understand is why you're asking me."

Sherlock frowns. "I was under the impression that you were interested in acquiring one."

John makes that same noise again, a sort of splutter that sounds ridiculous coming from the mouth of a grown man. "You don't just acquire children, Sherlock."

Turning his attention back to the slides beneath his microscope, Sherlock gives an offhanded wave in his direction. "Then I was under the impression that you would like to have one."

"Fairly certain neither one of us has the right bits for that."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawls from behind his microscope, John's attempt at humor clearly lost. "You haven't answered my question."

John presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. Does he even have an answer to give?

By now he knows that milestones in his relationship with Sherlock tend to come quickly and unexpectedly. They had gone from strangers to flat mates to friends in only a couple of days; friends to best friends to lovers to partners over the span of a few months. When they'd married half a year ago, John had assumed that was it, that there would be no more surprises, but life with Sherlock had never been that simple. And now he was offering a child, a dream that John has long since given up on and abandoned.

He slides a glance over at Sherlock, still engrossed in his microscope. He could make a good parent—John is certain of that. He would be the logical one, the one who would help with the science experiments and offer advice and tell the bedtime stories. He'd be the one who their child would go to for advice, and the one who would handle all the punishments. He'd teach them how to play chess and how to read and how to play the violin. He'd offer the tips on how to cheat on chemistry tests and he'd be there to help with maths homework when the material began to exceed John's level of understanding.

And John would be the emotional one, the one who would take pity on their grounded child. He would be the one who packed lunches and the one who attended all the parent teacher conferences at the private school that he would insist on sending their son or daughter to. He'd be the shoulder to cry on at three in the morning and the one who would eat ice cream out of the carton while watching old reruns of Doctor Who. He would fuss and worry and fret, make sure that all homework was done by a certain time each night, and he'd buy food that was far too healthy.

It would be a good balance, he thinks; they would complement each other as well as they did in their work. They were more than capable of providing a stable and happy home, provided that a great deal of changes were made to the environment before the a child was introduced.

A child.

His child.

_Their _child.

It was possible, he realizes. They could do it.

"You realize adoption is out of the question," John finally says. "An agent would take one look around this place and run off screaming."

Sherlock finally lifts his head away from his microscope. "Is that a yes?"

"Surrogacy with an egg donor would be the best option," John continues, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken at all. He's staring over at a spot on the opposite wall, eyebrows knitted into a crease in the center of his forehead, and Sherlock can almost see the mechanics of his mind moving as he thinks. "I can discuss it with Sarah. Perhaps she'd know someone who could assist us."

"A simple 'yes' would have sufficed, John," Sherlock says, though when John finally turns to look at him, he's doing a horrible job of concealing the hint of a smile that's found its way onto his lips.

"Sherlock Holmes. A father. Never thought I'd use those words together in a sentence."

"Yes, well," Sherlock sniffs, turning his eye back to his samples. "It's obviously something important to you. As your partner, I believe I'm supposed to compromise."

John smiles to himself as he picks up the paper and his abandoned piece of toast. "Right. You're compromising."

"Do you have any nitroglycerin?" Sherlock asks, breezing right over John's comment. It's no secret to either one of them that John can see right through him, though Sherlock still continues to pretend that he can't and John continues to play along, just for the sake of his pride.

"Mm, fresh out," he responds, finally biting into his piece of toast.

Sherlock lets out a disgruntled 'hmph' and John's smile widens behind the paper. No, he thinks. Raising a child will be no trouble at all.

Because compared to living with the overgrown four year old that is Sherlock Holmes, it'll be the easiest thing he'll ever do.


	3. The DNA Game

**A/N: **Thank you to all of you who have subscribed to this story. I'm going in for some fairly major knee surgery next week, so this will probably be my last update for awhile. As a favor to me, I would love, love, love to hear your thoughts on this and criticisms you may have. Think of it as a get well soon gift. ;)

I took complete creative liberty with Sarah's profession and the medical aspects discussed. I know enough about egg donation and surrogacy and IVF through research, but I can assure you that the process probably does not work the way that I've described it to.

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><p>Sarah had not only came through for John, but she'd excelled with, as the saying goes, 'flying colors'.<p>

On the Friday following his discussion with Sherlock, John had met up with her at a café they had frequented during the time that he'd worked at the surgery and before their respective orders had even had time to arrive, she had already placed a call to the Lister Clinic and was working on obtaining an appointment for him and Sherlock.

"They're the best," she'd assured him, blowing on the surface of her tea to cool it.

"I know," John had replied as he'd reached for his own cup. "I was a doctor once too, remember?"

Sarah had smiled at him over her cup, fingers on her free hand rapidly swiping over the keys on her phone. "Yes, but this is my specialty."

When he left the café no more than a half hour later, an appointment for an initial consult had been made for the following Friday and Sarah was already in the process of drawing up a list of potential surrogates. The whole thing had been a bit mind boggling, if John was to be quite honest. He'd walked into that café that morning with his world centered around one thing, and he'd left with an entirely different focus and purpose. He'd woken up as John Watson, as a long suffering husband, soldier, former doctor, current author (who'd known that Sherlock's escapades would have proved to be so lucrative?), and friend. After an hour with Sarah, he'd become John Watson, the long suffering husband, soldier, former doctor, current author (with a book deal and everything), friend, and father-to-be.

And Sarah, of course, wasted no time in doing away with the "to-be" part.

When Sherlock and John returned home from that first appointment at the Lister Clinic, they returned home with a stack of files for potential egg donors. There were twenty-seven of them to go through; twenty-seven different women, twenty-seven sets of DNA. Twenty-seven perfect strangers, one of whom would be the biological mother to their child.

It had taken them three days to make their decision, to finally settle on file number 037596, a dark haired woman from Sussex with blue eyes and an Oxford education. They (mainly Sherlock) had come to the conclusion a few says prior that it would be John would father the child, as he had always hoped to, so it had been John who had picked file number 037596. Sherlock gave him absolute hell for it, of course, but if John was going to provide half the DNA, he wanted the other half to relate back to Sherlock in some way. This was going to be their child, and if it couldn't be the perfect mix of the both of them, John was going to ensure that they got the next best thing.

"Genetics doesn't work that way, John," Sherlock had said, fingers steepled as he looked over the files spread out before them.

"Humor me," he'd replied, mind awhirl with images of chubby, dark haired toddlers who had his eyes. "It's just a bit of… sentiment."

Next, there was Sarah's list of surrogates and a whole other round of debate that had lasted nearly three weeks instead of three days. Eventually, though, they'd settled on a woman named Mary Morstan, a friend and former patient of Sarah who, after a battle with cancer, had become unable to have children of her own. She had acted as a surrogate once before and was well versed in the practice, which was a relief to John. He and Sherlock both, though Sherlock would never admit it, were far in over their heads and Mary's knowledge and gentle kindness had had a positive effect on the both of them.

She was, as Sherlock had later very quietly admitted, the perfect choice.

And even now, standing beside her in an exam room at Lister with an empty specimen cup in his hand, John has no doubt in their choice. Mary's smiling warmly at him from her perch on the exam table where she had just been declared fit for pregnancy, already a pillar of support and encouragement. She's a wonderful woman, John decides, just as lovely and radiant on the outside as she is on the inside.

Perfect. The perfect choice.

"Right," he says, very suddenly aware of the doctor on the other side of the room whose watching him over the rim of his glasses. "Better… go take care of this. Make my donation." He gives a halfhearted, embarrassed smile as he holds up the cup in his hand and gives it a little shake.

Sherlock, standing in the corner with his hands jammed into his pockets, no doubt clutching his phone in hopes for a reprieve in the form of a call from Lestrade, lets out a snort. "There's no need for delicacy, John," he says. The corner of his mouth twitches upwards, and John narrows his eyes at him. Mary giggles demurely from behind the back of her hand. "We know what you're going to be doing."

"Yes, well." John squares his shoulders back. "Perhaps I'd like to maintain a little of my dignity."

Sherlock's eyebrow rises by a minute fraction. "You've had your hand down my trousers in public on more than one occasion." Ignoring John's horrified gaze and their doctor's indignant splutters, he continues, "I'd say you lost whatever bit of dignity you had long ago."

"Thank you for that," John snaps as he steps into the adjoining bathroom, letting the door slam shut behind him.

On the opposite side of the wood, he can still hear Mary giggling as Sherlock leans against it and says, as only he can, "I thought that might prove to be a helpful memory for you. Stimulation is an important part of masturbation."

John grits his teeth as he locks the door. "It's not… a bit of silence might be good too, you know."

As Sherlock shuffles away, John can hear him saying something about how all of this is all very natural, and he idly wonders just how natural he could make it look if he were to shove Sherlock out in front of a bus.


	4. Pillow Talk

**A/N:** I'm still amazed by the number of people who have subscribed to alerts for this story. Every time I get an email about it, I'm completely blown away. There have been several times since I started this that I wonder exactly what I was thinking when I decided to start a story like this, but the feedback has made it so worth it. Thank you all so much! I hope you guys continue to enjoy and remember, reviews of any kind are always appreciated!

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><p>The knowledge of what they've gotten themselves into doesn't actually occur to John until the night before Mary's scheduled to undergo her first round of In Vitro Fertilization.<p>

Sherlock is already settled in bed by the time that John joins him, sprawled out with his laptop propped open on his stomach. He's not so much looking at it as looking over it, staring over at a spot on the wall with his lips pursed in thought, and as John tucks in, he leans over to steal a glance at the screen.

"When did WebMD become a credible source?"

"The success rate for In Vitro with donor eggs is fifty-five point one percent with donor eggs," Sherlock murmurs, folding his fingers beneath his chin.

John sighs. "Don't you think you've done enough research by now?"

"There's a forty-four point nine chance that the implantation won't take."

"You're nervous," John observes, reaching over to place his hand atop Sherlock's.

It takes him a moment but when Sherlock finally turns to look at him, he's more or less composed himself, except for his slightly widened eyes. "They're good odds," he says, though John isn't sure about which one of them he's trying to convince.

"They are," he agrees. "They're wonderful odds."

"And if it doesn't take?" Sherlock wonders aloud, gaze momentarily flickering to John's face.

John sucks in a breath. He can tell by the look in Sherlock's eyes that the inevitable has happened—Mr. Patience himself had cracked. "I don't know," he admits. It's not something that they've thought to discuss yet.

Sherlock doesn't roll his eyes, though John can plainly see that the temptation is there. "You do. You' would want to try again."

The corner of John's mouth curls upwards. "It's not just up to me," he says, giving Sherlock's fingers a gentle squeeze.

"I'm sure Mary would be agreeable," Sherlock replies.

"Well, it's not just up to her either."

Sherlock goes quiet for a moment, twisting his hand around so that he can grip John's. "I never thought I would want this," he admits in a strained and quiet voice. "I didn't think that I could." His eyes flicker to John's face once more, and John indulges him by giving him a small smile and running his thumb over his knuckles. "There were a lot of things that I didn't think I was capable of until you."

"I know, but you were wrong about those things," John says, giving Sherlock's wedding band a tap with his finger for emphasis.

He'd nearly toppled over in shock the day that Sherlock had suggested that they become engaged, unable to wrap his head around the fact that he would ever have been interested in a convention as traditional as marriage. The fact that he had been the one to propose entering a relationship in the first place had been enough of a shock for John. Both occasions had happened right here, right in their bed—once when it was still just John's and Sherlock never slept—and John is beginning to wonder what it is about this place that starts all of their serious conversations.

"Things change."

"I dreamt we had a daughter," Sherlock continues, as if he hadn't heard John at all.

"Oh?"

"Mm," he murmurs. "She was very much like you. Brilliant and adventurous. Quite stubborn as well."

"Ah," John nods, "So then she was like both of us."

"John," Sherlock says, his voice suddenly very small. "What if the child is like me?"

"So what if it is?"

Sherlock's eyes harden as he turns his head to look at John. "Please don't patronize me. You know full well what I'm asking."

"Then we'll have a brilliant child," John replies easily. He untangles his fingers from around Sherlock's and reaches over to snap the top of his laptop closed for him. "You have to stop worrying about this." When Sherlock snorts, John continues with, "You _are_ going to be a good parent. And if the implantation tomorrow doesn't take, we'll try again, alright? It _is _okay to want this."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock retorts.

"I would hope so."

Sherlock's lips twitch. "This could be fun."

With Sherlock's atypical moment of vulnerability now passed, John allows himself to chuckle. "So I take it this means that the game is on?"

"The game is on, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock responds, flashing the most genuine smile that John has seen cross his face in a long time.

Since that morning at the breakfast table when this whole thing started, John had been waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop; for Sherlock to pipe up announce that he had misjudged this and that he had no interest in becoming at parent at all. It was a horrible thought—Sherlock was his husband, for God's sakes—but now that they're addressing it, _really_ addressing it, John feels that last little bubble of panic deflate and fade away.

And then, then it actually hits him.

They're actually going to do this.

They're actually going to be having a child.

_Oh._

He blows out a breath that he wasn't even aware he was holding and sinks back against his pillows, a rush of blood pounding in his ears. "We're going to be parents," he mumbles weakly.

Sherlock, who had been in the process of settling in beneath the blankets, whips around and levels him with a pointed stare. "John."

He gulps as he turns to his husband with panicked eyes. "I never thought this would happen for me."

Sherlock breathes out a quiet sigh as he settles a hand on John's shoulder. "Things change," he says, repeating John's earlier sentiments.

"Right."

"This is what you want."

"Yeah."

"John," Sherlock stresses, his voice growing thinner and more strained.

Still in a bit of a daze, John runs a hand over his face. "I'm okay," he insists. "It just… hit me. We're going to be parents."

"Obviously," Sherlock drawls. He gives John's shoulder a quick, gentle squeeze before letting go.

"Thank you," John whispers. "Thank you for doing this for me."

Sherlock hesitates for a moment before he leans over and presses his lips to the crown of John's head. "You don't have to thank me," he murmurs quietly as John settles in to his side. He threads his fingers through John's hair and begins to knead at a spot on the back of his neck. "I'm doing this for us."


	5. Ready, Set, Go

The next morning, Sherlock wakes up with a case of what John has always referred to as "pepper in the ass".

Outside, the sun has just risen. The sky is still streaked with purple, highlighted by brilliant shades of orange and yellow, and the streets are still quiet. The few beams of light that stream in through the bedroom curtains are still faint, casting burgeoning shadows of the dresser and the nightstand onto the tile of the floor.

Most of London is asleep. No cabs rattle past, no horns are honked. Most of the coffee that will be consumed in the coming hours has yet to be brewed, and the newspapers that sit on the stoops of the city are still slick with the dew of the morning.

But Sherlock—Sherlock is wide awake.

Its seven minutes past five o' clock when he slides out of bed, footsteps cautious and quiet as he pads across the floor to the adjoining bedroom. He knows John will be up within the hour but for now he's still asleep, curled up on his side with his pillow partially pulled up over his face.

Sherlock closes the door to the bathroom with a quiet 'click' as a courtesy to John and he breathes out a heavy sigh as he sinks down onto the closed lid of the toilet seat. He hasn't been nervous like this since the day of his wedding and even that seems tame and mild compared to the heavy feeling of anxiety that's settled in his stomach, twisting it around like a garden hose.

Dropping his head into his hands, he scrubs at his face and lets out a quiet, strangled moan.

Providing that everything went according to plan, he was going to become a _father_ today. No matter how many times he heard that, no matter how many times he repeated it, he still couldn't quite wrap his brain around it.

Sherlock Holmes. A father.

His stomach does a sort of flip flop.

There aren't many things that he can't do but the thought of raising a child, of being responsible for the life of someone else, makes him feel impossibly small. Like Atlas, trying to balance the weight of the world on his shoulders.

And no matter how much blind, unyielding faith John put in him and no matter how often John reassured him, the logical, analytic side of him was constantly questioning everything.

John had the patience of a saint when it came to him, but could he ever expect a child to do the same? To turn a blind eye when he retreated so far into his own mind that he didn't speak for three days? To simply shrug it off when he missed meals or turn the other cheek when he slipped into a state of emotional unavailability? Would he himself be able to be patient, to give the child room to grow and to thrive and to make mistakes? Would he have the capacity to love them or to put their needs before his own?

Would he be a good father?

Or would he turn out like his own—harsh, negligent, and cold?

Prior to his death when Sherlock was nine, his father was often so caught up in his work that he only managed to make it home one night a week. He had little interest in his relationship with his wife and even less in the relationships he had with his sons. Occasionally he would offer a brief pat on the head as a sign of affection though he mostly remained stony and stoic, bitter and removed from the lives of those around him.

Sherlock had never wanted to be like him, not as a man and certainly not as a parent, but all those characteristics were there within him as well, as much as he loathed admitting it. He had his father's temperament and his dedication to work. Would he too start distancing himself? Would he criticize his child? Would he ignore them?

His stomach does another flip flop.

_John_, he reminds himself. He's doing this for John.

John, who has always been unbelievably tolerant and has never asked him for a single thing. John, who deserves this more than anyone. John, who loves him in spite of everything that he does and everything that he is.

He's doing this for John.

His mind begins to whirl as he tries to imagine their future. He thinks of Mary, of file number 037596, of Mrs. Hudson, of doctor's appointments, of sonograms, of all those midnight feedings, of what kind of bottles they'll buy, of what color they'll paint the nursery, of what name they'll chose.

But mostly, mostly he thinks of the tiny fertilized eggs sitting in a freezer in a clinic across town. They're nothing but balls of cells, no bigger than the head of a pin, half John and half file number 037596, the woman from Sussex with dark hair and blue eyes whom John hopes their child will resemble.

It's ridiculous to become attached to something like that but in that moment, all of Sherlock's doubts suddenly melt away, if only for a fraction of a second.

"It's okay to want this," John had told him, and he realizes now that he does.

He truly does.

It's amazing to him how quickly his life has just changed, how the center of his earth has so suddenly shifted. His center had always been himself, and then it had become his work, and then it had become John, and now, now his center lies within a small grouping of DNA.

Blueprints and potential; that's all that's sitting there in that freezer across town, but that's his life now.

That's _his_.

Theirs.

Their _child. _

With that thought, Sherlock finally finds the nerve to stand up and reach for his toothbrush. He has an appointment to get ready for.

He's going to become a father today.

/

Mary offers Sherlock and John a small, weary smile as she and her doctor step out of the transfer room, looking equal parts relieved and excited. She's still slightly dazed from the dose of a sedative that had been administered prior to the procedure, and she sways on her feet as Sherlock comes up beside her and winds an arm around her waist to keep her upright.

"I take it everything went well?" he asks the doctor, speaking over the top of Mary's head, which has just found its way onto his shoulder.

Her doctor, Dr. Farris, a short, balding man with thick rimmed glasses and a rather vibrant red tie, nods. "Things went very well," he says, flashing them all a smile. "We implanted only the one embryo as you requested, but I think your odds are fairly promising."

He hands Mary's chart over to the women behind the reception desk, and accepts the one for his next patient. "Allison is going to schedule a follow up for Mary in two weeks with Doctor Taylor," he continues, reaching up to adjust his glasses. "If the implantation was successful, the remainder of your care will be with her."

"And if not?" John asks, stepping up to stand on Mary's other side. He places a steadying hand on her lower back.

"In the case that things weren't successful, Dr. Taylor will refer you back to me and we can go over everything then," Dr. Farris says, reaching over to give Mary's shoulder a squeeze. "Hopefully that won't be necessary."

"Thank you," Sherlock murmurs, giving the man a courteous nod. "We'll be in touch."

John runs his hand over Mary's back. "Come on," he says to her. "Let's get you home."

Sherlock transfers her over to John's arms as they make their way out of the building; though he does reach down to take her hand, holding it tightly within his own. "Will you be alright?"

"I'll be fine," she replies with a bleary smile. "Thank you."

"No," John says, leaning down to brush his lips against the crown of her head. "Thank you. For everything."

Mary straightens up a little, just enough so that she can look them both in the eye. "You two deserve this, John," she tells him, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze as she does so. "I'm happy to be doing this. There's no need to thank me. I know you'll both be amazing parents, and that makes it worth it."

"Mm, you think so?" John's eyes flick over to Sherlock, who merely clears his throat and stares at one of the other buildings down the street.

"I'm sure of it," Mary says, though Sherlock has begun to tune her out.

All he can hear are her previous words, echoing through his head.

_An amazing parent._

As he helps Mary into her cab and slides into the subsequent one beside John, Sherlock's stomach begins to do those flip flops again. If a woman he hardly knows can place that much trust in him, why couldn't he? Why couldn't he do this? Why couldn't he be patient with his child and love his child and ensure his child's needs were placed ahead of his own?

Why couldn't he be amazing?

His fingers find John's, resting beside each other on the cool leather seat, and an involuntary smile works its way onto his face.

He can do this.

He's going to be a father.


	6. Twenty Questions and an Answer

**A/N: **Bit of a fluffy filler, but Mary needed some expansion. Most of her character comes from Doyle's canon, but I've tweaked her a little. I'm hoping she becomes as enjoyable to read as she is for me to write.

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><p>The first week passes effortlessly and quickly.<p>

Monday bleeds into Tuesday, Tuesday into Wednesday. Wednesday comes and goes and Thursday's sunrise brings a new case. Saturday afternoon sees the resolution, and the rest of the weekend passes in a haze of take away and telly.

The lazy comfort of Sunday is gone come Monday morning, replaced instead with hours that feel endless and minutes that feel like hours. Tuesday is sluggish, and Wednesday just seeps slowly by. Thursday is impossibly long and by Friday, John is practically crawling out of his skin.

Waiting unnerved him. Stillness unsettled him. Patience was _not_ his forte.

He wasn't like Sherlock. He couldn't just _sit. _John needed action; he needed to_ do_. Waiting around for an answer wasn't an acceptable course of action, so on Friday morning he sets out with a bag of fresh pastries and two cups of coffee from the little café down the street.

Mary welcomes him into her flat with a gentle smile, looking impossibly lovely in a simple yellow sundress. During their first meeting, she'd informed him that Fridays were her day off from the nursery where she worked as a teacher and John feels almost guilty for interrupting her morning until she spots the cup of coffee in his hand and eagerly accepts it, inquiring about the contents of the pastry bag at the same time.

"It's nothing really," John says as he hands the bag over to her. "It's just a few donuts and some scones."

"It's a lovely gesture, John," Mary says, making her way into the kitchen. While John glances about her flat, she pulls two small plates out from her cupboard and pours the coffee out into proper cups. "If I'd known you were coming I would have tidied up a little."

John chuckles at that. "It's tidy enough for me."

It's true that Mary's flat is a bit cramped, but it's warm and comforting in a way that reminds him of his own home growing up. Her dishes are adorned with a pattern tiny purple flowers and her carpet is clean and lush. There's no shortage of photographs on the walls or on her end table and her couch barely makes a sound as he sits down, immediately becoming enveloped in its plushy cushions. The atmosphere is very much like Mary herself; open, bright, and welcoming.

"Well I appreciate the visit," she says as she comes and sits down beside him, setting her cup beside his on the coffee table in front of them. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Case," John mumbles around a mouthful of scone, though it comes out sounding more like "huhase".

He politely covers his mouth as he finishes chewing, and then swallows. "Sorry. He's on a case."

Mary cocks a brow. "Don't you always go with him?"

"Not always." John reaches for his cup and takes a sip of coffee. When it occurs to him that Mary's cup is still untouched, he slides a little smile in her direction. "It's safe. I made sure to get decaf."

Mary goes a bit pink around the edges. "I just wasn't sure," she says as she picks up the second cup. "Until I see a doctor, I'm trying to do everything correctly, just in case."

"So you haven't tried to find out on your own? No symptoms or anything?"

"Ah, so that's what this is about," she says, gesturing to the plate of pastries in front of her. "Are you bribing me for information?"

John sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck. "A bit," he admits. "I've never really been one for patience."

"I wish I had something different to tell you," Mary tells him earnestly, reaching over to settle her hand on top of his. "But no, I've had no symptoms. It is early, though," she stresses. "Morning sickness alone doesn't start until—."

"Until four weeks after conception. I know."

"Doctor Taylor will have an answer on Tuesday. She's supposed to be the best."

John nods, nibbling at his scone. "She is the best."

Mary sighs and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "I can't even imagine how difficult it is for you, just having to sit around and wait."

"Mm, that's another reason that I'm here. I couldn't sit any longer."

She turns so her back is resting against the arm of the couch and tucks one foot up underneath her. "So why not go with Sherlock? Why come to see me?"

"I thought it would be nice to get to know each other a little better," John tells her as he shifts to mirror her position. "And I've had about had enough of Sherlock for one week."

Mary laughs. "I have to admit I was a little relieved when I saw you were alone."

"I don't blame you," John says, taking another sip of his coffee. "I know he can be a bit… abrasive."

Mary hums in thought and takes a moment before she speaks again, debating over whether or not the question she wants to ask is going to cross any boundaries. "Do you ever worry about that? How he might act around a child?"

"No," John answers honestly and with no hesitation.

"You have a lot of faith in him."

"I do." John props his elbow up on the back of the couch and rests his cheek against his hand. "You have to understand that he just… he doesn't process emotions the way that anyone else does. He does it in his own way."

"I know that he loves you," Mary says with a smile.

"He does," John responds with a smile of his own, suddenly feeling more like a giddy teenager than a thirty five year old man. Between his growing friendship with Mary, a stronger relationship with Sherlock, and planning for a baby, his whole emotional spectrum was currently way off kilter—Earth flipped on its ass, north-pole-where-the-south-pole-should-be off kilter.

Mary hesitates again, nibbling at her lower lip. "Do you ever wish he was different? I don't mean to pry. I'm just curious."

John waves her off. "I understand." After taking a pause of his own, he finally shakes his head. "No. No, I don't. He's difficult and he drives me half insane, but I fell in love with him because of that. I don't think our relationship would be what it is if he was any different."

"He is a good man."

"He is," John agrees. "You just have to get past everything else to see that."

"You never told me. How'd you meet him?" Mary asks.

"We each needed a flat mate."

She raises an eyebrow skeptically. "And?"

John laughs. Now he's not just feeling like a giddy teenager, but a gossipy one. What the hell was happening to him? "And a mutual friend introduced us."

Mary sniffs. "Something tells me there's more to that story."

"Ah, well. I can't tell you everything. Police business."

John grins at her from above the rim of his coffee cup and Mary quirks her brow just a bit higher, but doesn't press the issue. "Well how'd you get engaged?"

"What is this? Twenty questions?"

"We're getting to know each other."

"Fair enough," John sighs. "We were in bed one morning and he just… asked. Well, suggested would be the better word, I suppose. '_John, we should get married'_. That was it." He snorts. "I'm still half convinced it's all part of some elaborate experiment I know nothing about."

Mary hides her smile behind her cup. "It very well could be."

"It probably is, but I'm stuck with him now." He subconsciously runs his thumb over his wedding band. It's been eight months since their wedding, and he still can't adjust to the ring's presence. It all still seems so surreal to him, like he's living someone else's life. But the ring is his anchor, the steady, constant weight that keeps him grounded. No matter how impossible it seems, that little gold circle is real, and it's tied him to the love of his life for the rest of his life.

John just shakes his head at that thought, lips curling upwards into a little smile. "But I think I was always going to be."

"I think so too," Mary tells him, reaching over to give his hand another squeeze.

She's barely taken a breath when she straightens up and pulls back and fires off her next question. "What made you choose to use a surrogate? Why didn't you adopt?"

"Sherlock doesn't have the most… immaculate record," John says, chuckling. "An adoption agency would probably take one look at our file and toss it aside."

Mary frowns at that, nose crinkling just slightly. "Well it'd be one of their children missing out. I think you'll both be wonderful parents."

"So you never had any doubts about agreeing to do this for us?"

"Why? Because you're unconventional and Sherlock is—what'd you call him? Abrasive?" Mary vehemently shakes her head. "No. And even if I had, I wouldn't have agreed and we wouldn't be sitting here so it doesn't matter."

"I suppose not," John says with a nod. "What about you? Why did you choose surrogacy?"

Mary's face falls for a moment, but she recovers quickly and flashes him a tiny smile. "I think the most rewarding thing that anyone can do is raise or look after children. Having cancer may have made that impossible for me, but I wouldn't ever want to deny that right to someone else." She sniffles quietly. "I still have all the right equipment, if you will. I might as well put it to good use."

John reaches out for her hand this time and squeezes it. "Well, it's very much appreciated."

Her answering smile is a bit watery, but it's a smile none the less. "I'm glad."

"You have it made anyway," John says on a lighter note. "You take care of children for a living, and you have none of the responsibility."

Mary blinks once before she starts to laugh, giving John's hand a hearty squeeze back. "No, I think I'll be more than happy to leave all of that up to you."

/

It's just after eleven-thirty on Tuesday morning when John's mobile goes off.

This time he has gotten wrapped up in a case with Sherlock—a forty-something man found dead in his restaurant after an alleged break-in. Sherlock is going on about the pattern of the cracks in the shattered glass of the windows when John slips away to take the call, stomach twisting nervously when Mary's name flashes on the screen.

She's a bit breathless when he answers, and he can tell right away what her test results were from the tone of her voice.

They only speak for a brief moment before John ends the call and returns to the scene, face just as straight and professional as it was when he'd left. He clears his throat to capture Sherlock's attention, though he doesn't even glance up.

"If someone had broken in, _if, _you wouldn't expect to find shards of glass on this side of the windowsill," he's saying, gesturing to a few tiny pieces stuck in the crevice between the two sides of the window.

"Sherlock?"

"So—in a moment, John—the window was clearly broken as an afterthought—."

"_Sherlock_."

Heaving a sigh, Sherlock finally turns to face John, his expression steely. "Yes?"

"That was Mary," John says, holding up his mobile.

A flicker of understanding passes across Sherlock's face and John knows that he now has his full attention. "Oh?"

"Oh." Ignoring the fact that Lestrade is watching them closely and that Anderson is hovering around in the background somewhere, John smiles widely. "We're going to be parents."


End file.
